SFO: [expletive deleted] Comm shack, come in.
Communications Office: Unintelligible.
SFO: [expletive deleted] Contact the Camp Carpenter transit camp immediately. If they don’t hear from me in thirty—that’s three-oh—minutes, the Miller woman and the Miller minor are to be shot. Understood?
Communications Office: Unintelligible.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Outside the PSNH building. Not much traffic on the streets.
To his Packard, fumbling at the door, keys in hand.
The engine started with a roar.
He backed up, moving fast; a crunch as a rear fender clipped a telephone pole.
Somebody was shouting. A National Guardsman, rifle in hand, trotting from the PSNH building.
He shoved the column lever into first gear, popped the clutch.
Just a few blocks away. Just a few blocks away.
Tires squealed as he turned right, shifting again and then once more. Pedal to the floor. The Packard’s engine roared. The steeple… one of the most prominent structures in town.
Just the other night, Tony was in his house.
In his house!
Stealing his clothes to fit in. No doubt the people behind Tony had the resources to fake documents, and sure, it could happen, hide a weapon in the church days ahead of time, before the security lid came down.
A checkpoint up ahead. Barrel through?
The Guardsmen were armed with submachine guns.
Able to tear through metal and glass and flesh in seconds.
Sam slammed on the brakes, screeched to a halt, rolled the window down, and flashed his inspector’s badge and summit pass and yelled, “Get that goddamn barricade moved! Now! This is an emergency!”
Sweet Jesus, that was just what they did, they moved quickly back, dragging the wooden and barbed-wire barricade off to the side. He slammed the Packard into first gear, jammed his foot on the accelerator, and powered through, a front fender crumpling as it clipped the barricade.
Market Square, center of downtown Portsmouth. Church on the left, more National Guardsmen, Portsmouth cops, some huddled around a radio with a long extension cord. He slammed on the brakes again, jumped out, and started running.
Shouts.
He ignored them, running toward the old North Church. Red brick and tall windows and three doors, spaced across the middle, high white steeple, and up there was his brother. He bounded up the steps, coat flapping, and a Portsmouth cop—Curtiss, that was his name—said, “Sam! What’s wrong?”
Sam yelled, “Get that door open!
The cop muscled aside two National Guardsmen and opened the door, and he was inside.
A cool interior, scented with wax and candles. Empty pews stretching away. He looked around, heart pounding.
Door off to the left.
Opened it and went two narrow flights of stairs emptying onto the choir loft and organ, sheets of music on the chairs…
He swung his head around, hearing voices from downstairs—Curtiss arguing with the Guardsmen—looking hard, hoping not to hear the sharp report of a rifle from overhead.
Small wooden door, half hidden by a black curtain.
He ran across the choir loft, tore at the curtain, grabbed the door handle.
Locked.
Christ almighty!
He looked around.
A metal fire extinguisher hanging on the wall.
He pulled it off, tearing fingernails in the process, brought it to the door, raised it high, and brought it down.
The doorknob flew off and rattled across the floor. He dropped the fire extinguisher and pried the door open.
Worn wooden stairs, narrow and high, in a spiral. He started running up, his shoulders brushing against the plaster walls. There were voices in here too, from above. His .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special was in his hand and he went higher and higher, yelling out his brother’s name.
To the top, just above the clock gears and machinery.
A man turned. The room was small and cluttered with boxes and rusting metal parts. A hole had been cut from the steeple in the direction of the harbor. The room smelled of dust and pigeon shit.
The man looked to him, holding a scoped rifle. “Hey Sam,” the man said. He was wearing one of Sam’s old black suits, the elbows and knees shiny from age, a suit Sarah had wanted to throw out.
Sam stood, legs shaking, arms at his side. “Put the rifle down. Come over here.”
More voices. A battery-operated radio broadcasting a commentator with an excited voice, describing the approach of Hitler’s boat. That’s how it would work. The assassin would know when exactly to raise his rifle and pull the trigger.
Tony said, “Not going to happen, Sam.”
“Tony. Get the fuck away from there and drop the rifle. Now!”
Tony had the impatient look of an older brother. “Sorry. Worked too long, too hard, sacrificed too much to get here.”
Sam raised his revolver. “Drop the rifle, Tony. I don’t care what you did at the Yard, don’t care what they did to Dad. Look—Sarah and Toby have been arrested. They’re in a labor camp. They get out if I bring you in! Do you hear me? I bring you in and they’re free!”
Tony seemed to shudder, as though something had struck hit him deep and hard. “I wish you hadn’t told me that, Sam.” A pause, as if he were trying to regain his strength. “And you might be lying, for all I know.”
“You numb shit, I would never lie about my family.”
Tony said, “Sam, I love ’em both, more than you know, but they’re soldiers, just like everyone else. Drafted but still part of the fight. And what I’m doing here, it’s more important than them, you, or me.”
“Tony!” he yelled, hearing loud voices in the steeple.
“Leave me alone, Sam. I’m going to take care of that monster down there. Somebody should have killed the bastard years ago. He’s long overdue.”
Sam stepped forward. “Tony, he’s a bastard, but just one bastard. You kill him, and so what? Another bastard will take his place. He’s just one man. That’s all.”
Tony glanced out the opening. “No, that’s not all. He holds it all together. Get rid of him and the whole rotten system collapses. One man can turn this world to hell. And one man can make it right. And that’s gonna be me.”
The voice on the radio squawked,
Tony raised the rifle and Sam said, “Don’t!”
